Slave To Your Mentality
by StringInRepair
Summary: In commemoration for being self-harm free for the past two years, I have created a short story about a girl that faces the push and pull of feeling the need to cut, but not wanting to. Congratulations to all that no longer cut, bruise, burn, scratch, or hurt themselves in any other way. And for those of you that haven't yet, never give up. You do deserve better.


Slave To Your Mentality

The cheap florescent lights that hold onto the ceiling of the bathroom I share dim and grow in brightness, again and again, like the lapping of waves on forsaken beaches, retreating to mix with nameless and blase' water. Its only six in the morning, but that meant nothing to the darkness that stretched and crossed the distance of my mind. It knew no time; no day and night or black and white. And the thoughts that demanded death by my own hands just happened to scream louder than all the rest. Maybe that's why there's no trembling to my hands and no skip to my heartbeat. There's nothing but a counterfeit calm that I drown in, though I barely register the unmerciful suffocation. A simple hot pink, disposable razor finds its way to my hands, the chipped bright and sunny nail polish blurring as the blade takes center stage in the foreground. The lacerations that cover my wrists - some red and some black, some faded and some new - are the inevitable destination. And when the knife connects with the flesh of my marred pale skin, blood will force its way to the surface, dark and yet so terrible and ugly.

With a few days time, a new scar or scars (depending on how badly I want to die today) will join the old, to complete a canvas of scratch art. I run my tongue along dry, chapped lips as I raise my left forearm, searching for a blank space that's healed just enough or has never been kissed by a blade. When I finally find one that's just a centimeter to the left of a blue vein, I slide my thumb across the plastic top to separate the serrated, sharp edge from its final form of protection; its protection from me. My arm always ached whenever I heard about someone that cut themselves, even a year after I'd cut there last. The people that glorify self-harm never tell you that it never stops hurting. A year...two years...your arm, or leg, or thigh never stops remembering that sharp pain you rewarded or punished yourself with. But the release and the sense of punishment far outweighed any of that. Just knowing that I was getting exactly what I deserved and letting my anger out was enough for me.

I breathe in through my nose, the razor hovering over that one empty spot.

One...

The coolness of metal presses against my skin.

Two...

I drag it across my wrist with just the right amount of pressure as I relinquish the breath I was holding.

Three...

One drop of blood, dribbles its way down and I just stare at it. I watched the pay off of the ruined flesh as it cried in crimson, bordering on the color of my mother's hair. It was auburn. When it was in the sunlight it reminded me of the red wine I divested of whenever I was around my best friend. The friend that was a budding alcoholic I was too useless to help.

I had a paper towel on standby, to remove all traces of my high for the morning. And most evenings. But in this moment, I was content with just watching drops of blood race one another as I made a second cut. And a third. All tears of scarlet and burgundy and auburn and crimson lapped against old scars; blase' and nameless.

 _Ring. Ring._

A phone calls for my attention and for some reason...I panic.

I never panicked in these instances where I marked up every free surface of my body. Not until he waltzed into my life. He ruined everything with his optimism. And his blonde curly hair that I sometimes dreamed of running my hands through. And the amber eyes that served to be a reminder that he was not a boy, but not entirely a man either. To let him fine-tune me and my damaged heart strings until unbroken song could be strummed or plucked. In the weeks that I've known him and since I found out we'd be in the same music class, I've wondered if he might just like me with how he looked at me.

But I'm a fool.

He looks at everyone that way.

And someone like me is unworthy of such warmth and kindness.

I snatch up the paper towel lying in wait, applying enough pressure to my newly made wounds that it staunches the bleeding as I run through scales, humming them through the sting of cuts. This was the second worst part of my routine; cleaning up. The _worst_ of it was hiding what I did from everyone. Hiding it from my best friend, my Mom, and Momiji. That was the biggest challenge. Not because I thought they would be upset or anything. But because I didn't want to be carted off to some asylum or strapped to a bed in a mental ward.

So I never swam.

Bikinis and bathing suits were off limits for girls with scarred thighs and ribs.

I never rolled up or wore short sleeves.

Both were far too risky to even think about.

And I never let myself fall for anybody else; or care for them.

The hatred I held onto, directed at myself like self-serving poison, was what inspired all of this pain. It was what began hot and sweaty summers of jeans and jackets. It was what began my secrecy and the way I hid every little injury except the callouses on my fingers, gifted to me by the strings of my violin. But it was better this way.

It was better for me to stay in the safety and obscurity and _comfort_ of the dark.

Eventually, I throw away the blood soaked paper towel, making it to my room just in time for there to be a missed call and a voice message. It didn't dawn on me until this second that he was calling at an hour of the morning I didn't even think he knew about; being the bubbly ray of sunshine he always was, he must go to sleep at a reasonable bed time. How odd for a fifteen year old.

I flop back on my bed with my used and abused phone in hand, swiping through the phone app for voice messages as the fresh lashes that decorate abrasions become a dull ache in the background. My thumb raises, before coming down and hitting play.

 _Luna, its me._

 _You didn't show up during the first day of class. I wanted to know if you're alright._

 _*Sighs*_

 _I know that you never wanted me to find out. And I know that you think I'm oblivious. But I know you hurt yourself Luna. And it makes me sad and I feel angry because I don't get how someone like you could do that to yourself. I want you to know that when you...when you cut, you're not just hurting you. You're hurting me. And you're hurting others that want you in their life._

 _Please, call me back to let me know you're okay._

 _Or even if you're not. Please...just..._

 _Don't leave._

The voicemail ends after those last two words. Those final words feel like nails being pounded into my skull with unrelenting ferocity and fervor. I feel my stomach roll as I recall the rest of his message.

He knew about it.

He knew about what I did.

And...he implied that he wanted me in his life.

Something like s-shame and... _guilt_ fill my insides with the weight and sludge of tar. But instead of allowing myself to yell or shout at this time of morning, like I so badly need to, I get to my feet and drag myself into the bathroom. Shaking hands grip the counter top's edge for belated support, as my gaze falls to the razor covered in splotches of already dry blood from its place on the sink. My hand - as badly as tremors are tearing through me - goes for the handle, gripping it as I meet my own eyes in the dirty mirror. Because...I _need_ to know I'm alright. I need...I need...some way to not forget that I'm alive. T-to not be nervous...I don't know.

I...I don't know.

I rip my gaze from the smudged glass, nauseated at the ugly bruises that stick out on my forehead like the world's most hideous pimple, as I fling the razor into the trash can where all the discarded bloody tissues and paper towels reside. Bruises were the easiest to explain but they were the ugliest.

And instead of calling Momiji, I turn the lights out.

I somehow stumble through the pitch black, curling into myself on my twin-sized bed as the alarm of sirens howl in the distance, just outside the window of my foster home. Sometimes...I think about running from here. And others, my music and the feel of taut, silver strings digging into my fingertips are my way out of reality.

 _But my one true escape is one I can't talk about._

I cuddle my worn teddy bear to my chest.

 _Its one that could kill me, just as much as I think it could save me._

The haunting sound of floorboards creaking, tells of one of the other foster kids or my foster mom having woken up to get their day started.

 _Hurting me is the only thing keeping me from drifting off to death._

And I feel _so_ jealous because none of these people - strangers or otherwise - hate themselves like I hate me.

But...

Even a caged bird finds an out, eventually.

By way of a backdoor, a loophole.

Or by death.

And despite what I've just done, I don't want to be like this forever. I want so badly to be part of the group that fits the former; the ones that found a backdoor out of these chains of bondage that I'm tangled up in.

A girl can dream.

* * *

 **In celebration of me being 2 Years Self-Harm Free, I've created a little somethin' for this day! I couldn't have stopped alone and the temptation to throw it all away and do it again still came up. But eventually, I was able to stop with the Help I received.**

 **Will this become an actual story? I'm not sure. If it does become more than just this, it will be changed from 'complete' to 'in-progress.'**

 **I hope you all enjoyed?**

 **Can I say that about this sort of thing?**

 **Eh...**

 **How about this? I hope anyone out there that's suffering through something similar is or will be delivered from pain. If you have flaws, wear them like a badge of honor. If you have scars, don't feel ashamed of them.**

 **I hope you are able to love yourself (I'm still working on it) and are able to reach out to others that have been in your shoes. There's always, always better than this.**

 **Always.**

 **~MoonlitAtMidnight**


End file.
